


Portrait of a Man with Brooch

by theremin



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fairy Tale Style, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theremin/pseuds/theremin
Summary: Art gallery/fairy tale AU. Originally posted to my tumblr but figured I'd put it here too.
Relationships: Jared Dunn/Richard Hendricks
Comments: 20
Kudos: 25





	Portrait of a Man with Brooch

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授翻】Portrait of a Man with Brooch | 佩胸针者](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29430081) by [sukinano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sukinano/pseuds/sukinano)



**i.**

The _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_ was somewhere between small and mid-sized, done in oils and dated to 1883. From it a pale, young, blue-eyed man stared seriously, his dark hair neat and tidy, one hand up to indicate his bird-shaped diamond brooch. The hand wore a ring on its little finger. It was a modest painting, and while the other, more famous and celebrated paintings in the room of the art gallery weren't quite sure what curatorial decision had led it to hang amongst their ranks, they were far too polite to point it out. It was midnight, and after the regular quiet of the day (interspersed with the bracing noise of school visits and guided tours) the gallery was alight with whispers. And this night the paintings had a lot to whisper about. A celebrity was coming to the gallery.

"I wonder what he's like?" _Portrait of Mrs Rosmer_ wondered. "I suppose he'll have airs, being as famous as he is."

" _The Vitruvian Man_ is too old to have airs," _Sappho With Her Lyre_ pointed out. "he's more than five hundred years old. I'm sure he'll be deaf as a post."

"I heard that," _Four Seasons In a Head_ said, with its deep, crunchy voice. "he's not that much older than me. "

The _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_ shuddered a little. He never liked it when _Four Seasons_ talked. "I'm sure he'll be nice," he said. The other paintings sighed and he immediately regretted saying anything. It was usually better not to.

"We won't get to meet him," the _Scream_ litograph said in a high, thin voice. "he'll be in his own room. They'll charge people extra to go see him. Who knows, they might even make them put their _jævla_ phones away."

"I wonder what they'll do with the money!" _Mrs Rosmer_ said. "I cannot remember the last time they cleaned my frame. In fact, I would love a brand new one."

The next day the paintings did get to see _The Vitruvian Man_ , as he was reverently and carefully carried through the gallery into his own, specially lit and temperature-controlled little room. The gallery director, mister Mathers, a short, rotund man with thick glasses, was chattering excitedly with his colleague from Venice who had come all the way to deliver the drawing himself and would take part in the opening for the Friends and Benefactors of the Gallery that night. The _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_ looked curiously at _The Vitruvian Man_ for the few minutes he passed by them and thought he was magnificent, stern and dramatic and perfectly proportioned. He suddenly felt a little for _Four Seasons_ \- it might have been nice for him to have someone to talk to about the old days. But he felt excited about that night. The private openings always gave the paintings plenty to whisper about for weeks after.

As usual the wine flowed during the opening, there were speeches from mister Mathers and his new best friend signor Merano, there were plenty of ooohs and aaaahs and talk of Leonardo's genius, there was laughter and life. Around midnight the last guest had left and _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_ was excited to talk about the night with the others when footsteps announced the gallery was not yet empty.

"Oh, dear boy, I am sorry to have kept you waiting but ah, it was quite the Bacchanalian tonight!"

"Uh, right. I mean, uh, no problem."

Mr Mathers, rather redder in the cheeks than usual, walked into the room accompanied by a young man with auburn, curly hair, a strong, aquiline nose and a security guard’s uniform.

"Now, as I told you the gallery doesn't usually employ a night security guard but the Leonardo drawing is so obscenely valuable, it was rather a condition of the Galleria Accademia. But it's just you, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, cool, not a problem."

" _The Vitruvian Man_ is in there, but I suppose it will be most comfortable for you to sit in here."

"Yep."

"And your shift will end at seven AM, when the cleaning staff arrives. Tell me, have you been to the gallery before?"

"Uuuuh well um I... like I took a walk around after the interview?"

"Oh it really is a wonderful space, I do envy you in a way, getting all this to yourself in the witching hour! We really have a marvellous collection. Tell me, does any painting in particular catch your eye?"

The guard looked around a little unsurely, and _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_ was surprised to see him lock eyes with him and then walk straight towards him. "I dunno, I kinda like this one?"

"Oh! The _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_! One of the more obscure items in our collection. Would you like me to tell you a little about it?"

"Uhhh. Sure."

"Now, we don't know the identity of the subject, but this was part of the Belson collection. Mr Belson was a very rich businessman, he died in the very early 20th century and left most of his fortune to the gallery. He was a great patron of the arts! Sadly, he didn't have very much in the way of _taste,_ and the Belson collection which he also bequathed to us is... well, let's be kind and call it insignificant. As a younger man I was tasked with going through it with the intention of perhaps curating an exhibition, you know, a little local history, but well," mr Mathers laughed. "that would be _very local_ indeed! But I rather fell for this painting, it's one of the few from the collection we have in our permanent exhibition. The artist was a local portraiturist of some talent and this was especially commissioned by mr Belson. On first sight it's rather plain but repeated viewings reveal a quite touching, fragile beauty in its subject."

"But you don't know who he is?" the guard asked. "Like, his son or..."

"No, Belson died unmarried and without heirs. Good for the gallery! My theory is that this young man was his lover. It's quite unusual for portraits of men of the period to draw attention to their jewelry in this way, and the ring is not a wedding ring. Gifts from Belson, perhaps? The brooch is shaped like a bird. Some in-joke between them? Well, perhaps I'm just being romantic. But I find it intriguing, and intrigue, my dear boy, is what art is all about."

"Yeah, I guess," the guard said.

"Well, excellent, excellent, I'll leave you to it - forgive me, I've forgotten your name."

"It's uh, it's Richard, Richard Hendricks."

"Mister Hendricks! I leave you to your post!" Mr Mathers saluted and walked a little unsteadily out of the gallery.

"Okay," Richard said, sighed, looked around. He took a little walk around, then he sat down on a chair, and then he pulled his phone out of a pocket, started swiping it. The _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_ looked at him. He looked sweet. He was skinny and rangy and had a sort of kinetic energy about him, even when he was sitting still. His eyes were large and blue. And he'd looked at him, out of all the other paintings in the room, all the old and famous and grand and important paintings, and said he was his favourite. He wasn't sure that had ever happened before. _Richard,_ he repeated silently to himself. _Richard Hendricks._  
To his surprise Richard got up then, walked determinedly over again, and looked at him, up and down. It felt wonderful to be looked at like that. Then Richard got his phone out and took a photo, smiled at it.

"I think you look like a Jared," Richard mumbled with a smile.

The Portrait of a Man with Brooch, who had now been named Jared, felt like his heart would burst if he had one.

*

**ii.**

Richard Hendricks, the painting who was now named Jared thought, was a pretty unconscientious night security guard. Already on his second shift he’d disappeared right after it started to fetch a small computer, which he was furiously tapping away on, his fingers making clicking noises in the silence. He could feel the disapproval vibrate off the other paintings. But Jared was just curious. What could it be he was working so intently on? Perhaps a novel? Wouldn’t that be wonderful? He hoped Richard might read some out aloud. After a couple of hours solid tapping Richard yawned and stretched and drank from his water bottle, looked straight at Jared again and walked over.

“You’re really fucking cute,” he mumbled. “I wish you were a real dude so you could like, ignore me IRL. Hm.”

Jared wasn’t sure what Richard meant by that, and wished he knew he would never ignore him, given half the chance.

Richard sighed and started talking again, a little more clearly and confidently, apparently satisfied he really was alone. “Finally managed to leave Tulsa behind for the West Coast to become a tech millionaire and maybe legit get a fucking boyfriend... and instead I’m a fucking security guard talking to a painting.” He smiled. “Still! Rather you than the dudes on the apps. Horror movie shit. I bet you wouldn’t send me pictures of your dick or start a convo with anal, question mark. You look like the kind of dude who’d wanna like, make out in a field of flowers.” He laughed. “And uh, I don’t know, ask me about my day and put your arm around me in the cinema and...”

Richard suddenly looked depressed. He sighed, went back to his chair and started tapping away at his computer again. Jared wished he would come back, talk to him more. Most visitors walked past him without a second glance.

_Are you lonely, Richard?_ he thought. _Goodness me. So am I. When I was in the dusty attic, wrapped in wax paper so thick I could barely hear the whispers, it was like a terrible sleep and I thought nothing would be better than being among others and among people. But it turns out you can still be lonely in a crowd._

Jared started to look forward to the nights. Richard would come to look at him several times during every shift, always when he finished and started a round, and intermittently when he was working on the computer. Sometimes he'd talk. Jared learned not only was he from Tulsa (a cowboy! How exciting!), but he had roommates, and he was working not on a novel but on something called "a new internet" which he had such touching faith in (as far as Jared could tell the old internet must be pretty terrible), and he had a good friend called Big Head.

_I'm your good friend too,_ Jared thought. _even if you don't know it._

A couple of weeks in, at the end of another long wonderful night, Richard packed up his things, walked up to Jared and smiled. "Adieu, milord," he said and bowed a little. "until we meet again."

There was an alarm chip on the back of Jared's frame. If somebody tried to remove him from the gallery, sirens would go off. And Richard wouldn't, because his job was to make sure nothing got stolen. But Jared wished he would anyway. Wished he could hang in Richard's bedroom, be the last thing he looked at when he fell asleep, and the first thing he saw when he got up. He had once thought being part of a permanent exhibition would be the most unimaginably wonderful fate he could have had, but now he couldn't imagine a happier existence than getting to watch over - and be seen by! - Richard, only Richard, every day. 

"You should take care," the _Sorceress_ told him.

The _Sorceress_ was a mid 19th century British painting in excellent shape, vivid and strong in color, not a remarkable artwork by critical standards but very popular among visitors. She was willowy and sensual and her wrists and arms and legs were encircled with gold bands, her fingers dripped with rings, her thick brown mane was studded with jewellry, and she rested on a throne of gold in a cave full of coins and gemstones. Jared supposed she appealed to the spirit of the age. Many visitors had their photo taken with her.

"What do you mean?" Jared said. "I can't help it if he wants to talk to me."

Jared was proud of Richard's attention. Most security guards spent time with the most famous paintings, if any, or at least tended to show the same bland indifference to everything. Richard didn't care about any of the paintings except Jared, the most insignificant work in the room, and he was sure they resented it a little.

"Those who reside in the world of paint can never walk among those who reside in the world of flesh and blood," the _Sorceress_ said.

"I know," Jared said defensively, as if he hadn't just been daydreaming about literally being stolen by Richard and in some measure being brought into his world.

"But there is of course somewhere we can meet as equals," she said.

If Jared had eyelids, he'd blink. "What? Where?"

"In the realm of dreams."

Jared supposed she was just being poetic. But he couldn't help but ask. "What do you mean?"

"I am not only a sorceress in title. I could arrange a meeting between you. I'm sure he's home and asleep after his shift right now."

"What?" Jared said. "You mean- I'll be able to talk to Richard, like you and I are talking now? While he's asleep?"

"Yes."

"Well- gosh, well, thank you! Yes!"

"How will you pay me?"

"Oh I-" Jared said a little unsurely. "I- I don't have anything to pay with."

"That's a pretty ring you have on your finger."

Jared looked down on his hand, the thin band of gold on his little finger. "Well, that's - yes! Yes, take it, I have no use of it!"

"It will be done," the _Sorceress_ said and then it was like the art gallery faded away before Jared's eyes and he was in a very dark room all of a sudden. There was an echoey, dripping noise. He looked down and he had legs, and he had another hand, and he had everything a man has. He experimentally set a foot before him and moved forward, but not really like the visitors in the gallery moved, all clunky and in stops and starts, he glided. He could hear a low whine and followed the noise. And there was Richard - but oh horrors, he was chained to the wall, blindfolded, shivering and breathing hard.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck who's there?" he cried.

"Richard- it's, it's um, it's Jared." He walked over, took away the blindfold. Richard's fear gave way to surprise. 

"What the hell? What are you doing here? They're going to torture me, Jared, I'm going to be-"

"No," Jared said, touched Richard's chains and they fell to dust. Richard's lips parted and he grabbed his wrist. "let's go somewhere you feel safe."

Richard looked around and they now appeared to be in the basement of a house. It had a ratty couch, a clunky, oatmeal-colored computer and lots of little metal pieces and wires lying on the floor, a boxy TV set, a poster on the wall that said "weezer". Richard grinned, flung himself down on the couch, leaned one foot against the low table in front of it and drank from a can which had appeared in his hand. "Um, like, sit down?"

Jared sat down next to him. "Where are we?"

"Like, this is my crib. Well uh it's my parents' house obviously but I have like total run of the place down here! Um do you like, do you want a Surge?" 

"Okay!"

He found he had a garish can like the one Richard had in his hand. He tried it and the flavor rang in his ears and his toes and and his hair. He got a sudden vision of a large space full of young men with big computers, much larger than the ones Richard wrote on at night, and a sour, pervasive tang. He supposed what he was experiencing were some of Richard's memories attached to the drink. He felt a little guilty, as they were obviously not meant for him, but much more than that he relished it.

"That's really good," he said.

"Yeah uh, it's like, my favorite. Um so like, what are you like doing here? Not that I'm not happy to see you!"

"I just wanted to talk to you," Jared said. 

"Yeah uh you must be tired of just hearing me talk all the time, haha."

"Not at all," Jared said. "but it's so lovely to be able to respond!"

"I like your voice, it's uh almost like I imagined?"

"You imagined?"

"Ha ha all the time." Richard smiled. "I'm so curious about you. Were you like really - when you were alive, I mean - were you like..."

"What?"

"Well, what mr Mathers said."

"I'm aware of his theory," Jared said. "but honestly, I don't remember the man I was. It's been so long and he lived for a long time after his portrait was done. Until you gave me a name, I was just _Portrait of Man with Brooch_ and that was all."

"What? Like, you don't remember what like uh, your job was or..."

"I think I was a clerk," Jared said thoughtfully. "I'm very good at numbers. Before I became part of the exhibition, I would entertain myself by solving problems."

"I'm good at maths too!" Richard said, excited. "Like, we have that in common." He smiled, a sort of hopeful, touching smile. It made Jared ache all over. "Do I uh, do I annoy you? When I talk to you?"

"Oh- oh no, Richard! It's, well, it's the highlight of my day! You're so interesting, and you're so nice, and well, I'm not used to anyone paying attention to me! I wish you'd talk to me more!"

He suddenly noticed they were no longer in the basement, but on a beach. Jared had seen it in other paintings, but this was far more vivid. His mouth fell open and he looked around. The wind made Richard's hair move, and he was wearing a T-shirt and swimming trunks, sitting on a large towel, a towel almost the size of a bed. Jared suddenly felt self conscious about his black suit, more than a hundred years out of fashion. He wished he could look like a man of Richard's age, be a man of Richard's age. 

"Aren't you hot? Put this on," Richard said, as if he'd read his mind, handed him something, and suddenly he was wearing swimming shorts in a shiny material, and his skinny chest was bare. He brought his hand to it. Was this how Richard wanted to see him? There was something very exciting about that. 

"Oh, goodness me!"

"That's better," Richard said. "like um... but like, I was saying earlier. Like I know you don't remember who you were and stuff and that's okay, sure, but uh... like, okay, like, if I wasn't such a complete fucking loser, I'd one hundred percent ask you to go out with me and I guess I just wanted to know if that's something you'd hypothetically be into, or if I'm just being pathetic as usual."

"Go out where?" Jared asked innocently.

Richard laughed. "Anywhere you wanted to go. As long as I got to kiss you by the end of it."

"Oh- goodness, yes," Jared said. "I can't think of anything more wonderful!"

Richard moved his shoulders and balled his hands into fists, smiling all over the width and breadth of his face, and Jared laughed when he realized he was doing a victory dance. 

"We can go right now!" Jared said, excited. "We can go anywhere! What about Venice? Let's go to Venice!" He'd heard signor Merano's speech, and thought Venice had sounded wonderful. 

"I can't believe this is happening," Richard said happily. "I feel like I'm dreaming."

"But Richard," Jared said. "you _are_ dreaming."

At those words Richard frowned and then he started to fade, and Jared thought he could see the outlines of his familiar view in the gallery.

"Oh, oh goodness, oh, wait," Jared said, threw caution to the wind, leaned forward and pressed his lips to Richard's. At that the outlines of the gallery disappeared and Richard seemed firm and solid against him, firm as paint and color. And Richard kissed back, wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, and they fell backwards together, into the sea. 

*

**iii.**

Even as Richard was kissing Jared, he started fading again, and all too quickly he was gone, and Jared was back in his frame at the gallery. He looked down on his hand. His ring was gone. He looked over at the _Sorceress,_ and noticed she had a new, thin ring on her already heavily bejewelled fingers.

"Well?" she asked.

"Oh- oh, it worked, it- oh, it was wonderful! We talked and we- oh, goodness me! And it really was - it really was Richard."

"Of course," she said.

The gallery was far more busy than usual, with crowds of people coming in to see _The Vitruvian Man_. Normally, Jared would enjoy it, enjoy looking at the visitors and hearing their conversations, but now he was just impatient. He couldn't wait for the gallery to close for the day, for Richard's shift to start.

Then finally, finally, the last visitor left, the evening security did their final rounds, the offices were deserted, and the lovely, familiar sound of Richard's footsteps came padding into the room. This night, he beelined for Jared, smiled at the painting.

"Well, hello, or should I say, hello, again!"

How Jared wanted to be able to answer, just to say hi, with a smile big to match Richard's.

"Not only have I gone crazy enough to talk to a painting every night, you've even started to enter my dreams. Literally one of the best dreams of my life. And I even remember most of it."

I remember too! Jared wanted to shout.

"I mean I guess I woke up before it really got good but uh... like... still pretty fucking amazing." He grinned. "A normal person would probably stop doing this and read a fucking book or something, but I'm honestly lonely and horny enough I'm just going to-" Richard frowned. He squinted, leaned in close. Blinked. "what happened to your ring." The last phrase was addressed to Jared, but his voice had changed, had gone back to the mumbly talking-to-himself tone. He got his phone out, looked from that to the painting, then back again. "What the fuck?"

He agitatedly walked away, dialled.

"Hi um, it's me. Like, the weirdest shit just happened at the gallery? No, nothing's stolen- um, I think someone messed with one of the paintings. Well, like- the dude in this painting used to have a ring, and now he doesn't. It's fucking bizarre? Yes, I'm sure. I'm sure! Look, I have a- nevermind how I know, I know. But it's like it's been painted professionally over." Richard was silent for a long time. "Shit, fuck, you think so? Aaaah. Fuck... but like, Big Head, I'm pretty sure it's not been replaced. Like it feels like the same painting..? Okay yeah I know how that sounds... but it's not super valuable or anything, I'm not sure why anyone would like Ocean's 11 it. You think I should contact the police?" Another pause. "Ummm. I guess. I guess." He hung up, walked back, scrutinized Jared. Then he rubbed his eyes. Then he went back down to his seat, pulled out his computer and started writing.

He wasn’t as rapt in his work as he usually was, he kept glancing up at Jared. Finally he put the computer down on the floor, walked over.

"You're not a real dude. And you haven't been replaced by a fake," he said, firmly, still to himself. "I'll talk to mr Mathers next time I see him, it's probably a weird lighting thing or something." Then something softened in his features. "Can I tell you my good news? I've had a real eventful day." Again his tone shifted, and he was clearly talking to Jared now. He smiled, he looked so handsome. "So like, I've been funded!! Well, um, my app, uh idea. I'm finally going to do my own startup, no more of these random jobs. Uh I hope. So tomorrow night is like... my last night. Maybe I'll go be rich and successful. Haha, I promise if I become like megarich, I'll buy you! But either way I'll... I guess I'll come visit." He sighed. "And you've kind of inspired me to go back on the apps and shit. Because I wanna meet someone like you in real life. I wanna feel like I felt in that dream. I bet you're out there, somewhere."

_No,_ Jared thought desperately. _I'm in here._

"And I've decided I can put up with a lot of bullshit from a lot of assholes if it means I can find you. So uh. Yeah. Getting um, getting back out there, baby. In the frog pond." He looked a little wistful. Then he looked around and very, very gently, with only the lightest brush of his fingertip, touched the pink brushstrokes that made up Jared's lips. Jared wanted to gasp. But he didn't have lungs.

Those who reside in the world of paint can never walk among those who reside in the world of flesh and blood. Jared knew how selfish the feeling was, but the thought of Richard pressing his lips to another's was galling. The thought of Richard being treated unkindly was unbearable.

"There's like a song, I really love?" Richard said. "I'm not gonna like, sing it, don't worry. But it's like - it's about a bird and a whale that fall in love." Richard was quiet for a while, then he recited, mostly to himself, in a thin voice: 

"He said, _You cannot live in the ocean_  
And she said to him  
 _You never can live in the sky_  
But the ocean is filled with tears  
And the sea turns into a mirror  
There's a whale in the moon when it's clear  
And a bird on the tide."

Even if Jared had been able to speak to Richard, he wouldn't have known what to say. 

Richard went to sit in his chair, now worked with his usual focus for the last hours of the shift and then packed his things up and tiredly shuffled off when it ended without saying goodbye.

" _Sorceress,_ " Jared said. "you need to send me back again. Back into his dreams. Please. I have to talk to him."

"How will you pay me?"

"My brooch," Jared said. "take my brooch."

"It will be done," the _Sorceress_ said. "when he falls asleep, you will be together."

Jared steeled himself for another long wait, but Richard must have been exhausted because in what was probably only the time it took to get to his house, about forty five minutes, the gallery melted away around him and he was in what looked like a school corridor, there was a door, he opened it, and Richard were among several students intently writing.

"Richard!" Jared said.

"Jared- Jared! What the fuck? Uh- shit I'm in the middle of an exam and I think I'm going to fail-"

"No you're not," Jared said, remembering one of the first things Richard had ever told him. "we're in a field of flowers."

The classroom and the other students melted away and they were in an endless field of orange and red and white flowers, thickly daubed. Jared had never seen a real field of flowers but _Bauerngarten_ hung in his field of vision at the gallery.

"Oh, good," Richard said. "thank god for that." He took Jared's hands and let himself fall backwards, and they both landed on the ground and it was soft like feathers. Richard kissed him and Jared kissed back with all he had. 

Jared had so many things to say to him, so many things he needed him to know, but he found himself quite overwhelmed by Richard's hunger, and in the face of it discovered one in himself to match it. Jared let his hands brush slowly over Richard's body, like the strokes of a paintbrush, and in the trails of his fingers bare skin appeared where he had been clothed. Intrigued, he let his large hands drag over Richard’s chest and then he was naked before him.

“I’m sorry,” Richard said.

“Whatever for?”

“Like, I don’t know, I, uh, I’m not much to uh look at I guess”

Jared grinned. “You’re _very much_ to look at! I think you’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Jared buried his face in Richard’s neck, and it moved with his incredulous laughter. He kissed the bob of Richard’s Adam’s apple, the wisps of hair on his chest, and was delighted when Richard’s pink nipple stiffened in his mouth and Richard threw his head back and swore.

"I want, I want, I want-”

“What do you want?” Jared asked. “You can have anything.”

Jared suddenly found himself on his back and Richard was kneeling between his legs, his lovely lips wrapped around Jared’s dick, and he was making little whimpering noises around it. Jared wasn’t sure if the sensation triggered his own long buried memories of a past life or if he was too immersed in Richard’s desire to separate it from his own, but he felt electrified. 

“Oh my goodness, oh Richard!”

“Is it - is it good?”

“Yes, yes-”

Then things changed again, and Jared was thrusting into Richard who was now half-dressed again for some reason, a green hoodie bunched up over his stomach and his knees drawn up, he was lying on his back and holding a hand over his own mouth. He realized they were back on the ratty couch in the basement from the night before. He brought his own hand to Richard’s, tried pulling it away.

“Don’t hush your noises,” Jared said. “I love to hear them.”

“Are you crazy, my parents will hear,” Richard said, muffled. “just do it.”

Some times Jared would remember he had things he needed to say to Richard while he still could, how little time they really had together, but then suddenly something new would happen and he found he just could not concentrate, he could only feel and do. 

But then things sort of quickened. They flipped rapidly between positions and situations, it almost sent Jared spinning. He grabbed onto Richard's shoulders and held him down as hard as he could in an attempt to still his mind.

"Richard, what's happening? What's wrong?"

"I'm so- I'm so close, I'm-"

“What?"

"God, Jared, I’m uh, I’m gonna come, like, touch me-”

Jared suddenly found his hand wrapped around Richard’s dick and stroked, firmly and surely. “Yes,” he said. “I’m right here.”

“Jared, Jared-”

How expressive his face was! What a range of movement! Jared had once hung in a room with a suite of Ducreux portraits and had found them rather remarkable, but Richard’s face left them all in the dust in a span of seconds. Jared gazed at him, entranced, his hand moving, and he was completely happy.

Then, Richard disappeared.

*

**iv.**

"No!" Jared cried out.

A pair of visitors to the gallery jerked, looked around. "Did you hear something?" the woman said to her husband.

"I'm not sure," he replied.

"Still your voice," the _Scream_ told Jared, scandalized. "it is for paintings to speak in whispers only."

Jared looked at the _Sorceress,_ saw how the bird brooch that used to be on his lapel now was in her hair. The brooch that gave him his title, that made him special. And still, he could not feel the loss over the tremendous longing vibrating through him. Why would he need a title when he had a name?

“ _Sorceress,_ ” he begged. “send me back, send me back there!"

"He is awake, I cannot reach him."

"But- but I wanted to see his face. Oh God, I just wanted to see his face! And I- I never got to tell him-"

Jared trailed off and the paintings fell silent around him, perhaps not out of caution but pity.

The dusty creak of _Four Seasons’_ whisper reached Jared. "Young man," he said. "it is foolish for the living to fall in love with one of us. For one of us to fall in love with one of them is impossible. We have nowhere to put our pain. It can only destroy us."

But Jared had to speak to Richard again, just once, just one last time. He composed a short speech, rehearsed it, he wouldn’t be distracted this time, it would let him know he wasn’t crazy, it would let him know that whatever he felt for Jared Jared returned it tenfold, it would let him know he deserved to be happy, to be loved, not to let anyone treat him badly, and Jared would be satisfied with just the occasional visit, would be happy just not to be forgotten like he promised he would never forget Richard, no matter how much else he’d forgotten. And he’d thank Richard, thank him for seeing him and noticing him and showing him the beach and his room and his face in rapture.

When the gallery emptied Jared waited and waited and finally Richard appeared. But he didn’t walk up to Jared, didn’t say anything, even sat down facing in a different direction than he usually did, giving Jared a view of his profile. He wasn’t working on his computer this night, instead he was touching his phone.

_Can't you look at me?_ Jared thought. _Wasn’t it good, what we did? Don’t you like me anymore?_

Richard's leg was jiggling hard, and finally he got up, walked over and looked at Jared, saw his brooch missing. His mouth fell open. "Jesus fucking christ." He took a deep, wavery breath. "Like. Okay. I'm gonna like, close my eyes, ok, can you like, move? Can you uhhh, when I open my eyes, maybe yours can like be closed or something?"

He closed his eyes hard but Jared couldn't close his. They were painted in place. Richard's eyes opened and he looked almost a little deflated.

"Am I going fucking insane here for real? Am I being pranked or some shit... god, I'll end up in a fucking mental institution like this."

Cold fear seized Jared. The idea he would be responsible for Richard ending up somewhere awful because he had crossed impossible boundaries was too horrible to consider.

"Richard," Jared cried out, as loud as he could. Richard flinched.

"Shit, what was that?" Richard looked genuinely scared. He got his phone out, started tapping into it, turned away.

" _Sorceress,_ " Jared said. "you have to send me back again, back into his dreams, just so I can explain. I was going to the last time but there wasn't enough time. I can't bear it if I hurt him, I have to fix this."

"How will you pay me?" the _Sorceress_ asked.

"Well - well, you have my ring and my brooch, I dont' have anything else!"

"Your paint then," the _Sorceress_ said.

"What?"

"Yeah, hi, mr Mathers? It's uh, it's Richard, Richard Hendricks? The night guard... uh... like are you super far away because there's something really weird going on with one of these paintings. Do you think you could come back to the gallery? Um, please, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important." Richard’s voice sounded afraid and small, and he went back to his chair after he hung up, looked resolutely away from Jared.

"If you want to talk to him, I’ll have your paint for payment."

"But that's all I have," Jared said. “there will be nothing of me left.”

"If you want to talk to him, you will pay me," the _Sorceress_ said.

"Fine," Jared said desperately. "yes. Yes. Take it."

“It will be done.”

There was a crash, and Richard jumped and fell off the chair, his phone skidded along the floor. He turned around sharply to where the noise came from and his mouth fell open as he saw a skinny young man in black clothing more than a hundred years out of fashion unsurely get to his feet and rise to his considerable height.

"Richard," Jared said, and gasped, because he had lungs. He had a tongue and a palate to shape the name Richard. His mouth was wet with spit, his eyes had eyelids that went up and down. He looked at his hands, and their color was even, their edges defined. He blinked again - what a curious feeling! - and looked at Richard. In the world of flesh and blood, through real eyes with pale blue irises, Richard was even more beautiful. He was staring open mouthed at him, eyes round and hands raised a little in defense. "Richard- goodness, I understand how scared and confused you must be-"

"Jesus christ," Richard said weakly. "am I hallucinating?"

Jared walked over, slowly, then equally slowly reached out and took one of Richard's hands, pulled him up to his feet. Richard flinched a little but let it happen. Jared raised the hand to his lips and kissed Richard's palm. He smiled.

"You taste like the sea!"

"Uhhh"

"You felt that, didn’t you?"

"Yeah- uh yeah." Richard's eyes opened even wider. "You're. You're real. I- I knew it, I-"

Jared nodded, still holding on to Richard's hand. It was warm, and his warmth infused Jared, steeped him like tea.

"I gave my ring to kiss you. I gave my brooch to lie with you. And I gave my paint to be with you." He looked at Richard with all his hope written plainly on his face. "If you'll have me."

"Holy fucking moly," Richard said. "uh." Then a determined glint shone in his eyes and he grinned. "Yes. Um. Fuck yes!" Richard grabbed Jared's hand, hard. "Let's get out of here."

He started running and Jared followed breathlessly, recklessly, ran on his legs of bone and blood and flesh through the gallery, past the silent paintings whose whispers he could no longer hear, made the halls ring with the echoes of footsteps. They got outside and Richard skidded to a halt as a sweaty mr Mathers appeared before them.

"Young mister Hendricks, what- what-" he looked at Jared, there was a beat, and then his eyes went completely round behind his glasses. There was an awkward silence.

"Young man," mr Mathers said. "where's your brooch?"

"I traded it," Jared said.

"I see," mr Mathers said. "well um. Good night."

"Uh good night" Richard said, and he and Jared went off into the night together.

Mr Mathers walked a little shakily into the gallery. His heart seized a little when he saw the frame where the _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_ had been, empty. Or no, not empty. The canvas was there, but it was white and blank, a little yellowed with age. "Good heavens," he mumbled, took the frame down and disabled the alarm chip with a little reader. He took it under his arm and went off for his office. It was a very insignificant work, and nobody would miss it.

On the other side of the room, the _Sorceress'_ colors were more radiant than ever. She pitied the _Portrait of a Man with Brooch_. He had wanted a name, and a heart, and bones, and fingers that could intertwine, and lungs with air in them, and he'd got them. And he'd paid with his ring and his brooch and his paint, but also his immortality.

She saw him in the gallery again, from time to time, in the years that followed, always hand in hand with that useless security guard who still looked at him all cow-eyed, both of them growing greyer and more faded like all those who reside in the world of flesh and blood do. 

At least, he looked happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure I came up with this after walking around the art gallery in Animal Crossing and mr Mathers is basically Blathers the owl


End file.
